Drowsy
My step-father's parents were very old and very southern. They treated me as if they'd rocked me to sleep as an infant by the living room fireplace. I'm nine, and the fireplace crackles and it's night and winter and cold outside and the wind shrieks through the trees like the red-skinned, pitch-forked devils in old cartoons, and even though I feel like a stranger, that I don't belong in this house, my eyes become heavy and I slowly fall asleep to the spit and pop of fresh wood burning.
Erik Rosen is a sometime poet, sometime journalist, sometime photographer, sometime book designer, and full-time dilettante. He was born in New York City (which explains a lot) and has made Pittsburgh, Pa. his home for the past twenty years. He's been writing poetry on and off since childhood, which was a VERY long time ago.